Archive of Our Own

When Anderson came to Bean with the request and the transfer slip that read North Carolina, Bean wanted to tell Anderson to go to hell. Bean didn’t care what happened to Wiggin, because Wiggin hadn’t cared what happened to Bean.

But Bean couldn’t say it. Maybe it wasn't even true.

They put him in a shuttle, then a helicopter, then a shuttle, then the back of an official IF car. The sunlight was so bright Bean teared up. He hadn’t seen sunlight in over a year

The soldier drove him past signs advertising restaurants and casinos and personal injury lawyers. Most jarring were the IF recruitment billboards, gaudier and more in-your-face than those in Europe, featuring confident square-jawed adult men who grinned out at Bean as he passed. Down the highway they drove, turned off and down a dizzying series of winding roads, narrower and narrower until they thinned down into a single long gravel driveway, which wound up the hill to the biggest house Bean had ever personally seen. Out of the car, up the steps, and then into the living room, where Colonel Graff was waiting.

Graff was bigger, both taller and fatter, than in the photos Bean had seen. Bean’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dimmer lighting, so he couldn’t see Graff’s face. Even in civilian shirt and pants, even sweating in the late-summer heat, even without a face, you could tell he was an officer of the International Fleet. It was something about his posture. Or his grooming. Bean had admired that kind of thing when he was younger.

He watched Graff run one thumb over the other, maybe a little nervous tic. Or maybe Graff was just naturally fidgety, like Nikolai who picked at his cuticles, or Wiggin who chewed his lip when he thought none of the Dragons were looking.

“Where’s Wiggin?” Bean asked.

“Ender is on the lake,” Graff said. “You would’ve passed him on the way in. He spends most of his time swimming or sleeping. When it rains, he stays in and reads. There’s no Net access —” (a lie, Bean thought, they just don’t give Wiggin Net access) — “so he’s limited to fifty-year-old paper books, and whatever else the previous owner considered entertainment.”

Spending time doing nothing seemed out of character for Wiggin. At Battle School he’d been restless, top of his classes, top of the standings, dipping out of extra practice sessions and skipping meals to go watch old Mazer Rackham videos — and Bean guessed that there was more to the story that Graff didn’t care to tell him. Had Wiggin suffered a head injury during the fight with Achilles? En route, Bean had tried to find the psychologist’s notes — surely Graff had brought a psychologist — but now that Wiggin was technically no longer a student, they didn’t store his evaluations in the same place anymore.

Then again, Bean realized, he actually knew very little about Wiggin’s character. He couldn’t imagine Wiggin the consummate commander outside the battle room or the barracks. He’d read up on Wiggin before entering Dragon, but he’d still been surprised — for example, none of the teacher’s evaluations had ever said that Wiggin was an ass.

Bean didn’t like surprises, but it looked like Wiggin was going to surprise him again.

“Ender insists he’s not interested in continuing his education.”

“I’m surprised you gave him a choice.”

“He’s always had the choice. Soldiers do better when they’re willing. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem interested in doing anything useful with his talents.

“We’ve tried to convince him otherwise. You’re the ninth person we’ve brought in. Number eight was his sister, who looked like our best shot at first. But their conversation was less productive than we’d hoped. She seemed upset at how much he’d changed — you’ll see what I mean. Afterward she was unwilling to cooperate with us.”

Bean had read about Valentine in Wiggin’s psych reports. He’d gone looking for her test scores, dating back to when she was three, when she was formally rejected — equal to or higher than Wiggin on mathematical, spatial, and linguistic aptitude; bottom of the pile in aggression. Too gentle, the recruiters had concluded. So it was odd, then, that she’d refused to cooperate. What had happened between her and Wiggin that she’d rebelled? And why did Graff think Bean would be any different?

“So I was your next choice?” Me, some kid he couldn’t even work with? Not his parents, or one of his toon leaders, or one of his buddies from his practice sessions?

“He trusts you.”

“Like hell he does.” Wiggin had trusted Achilles more than he trusted Bean. “More like I’m the only option left, but you’re not supposed to tell me.”

Graff didn’t answer. Bean knew he had guessed right. “So what happens if I can’t persuade him to return to training?” he asked, pretty sure he’d already know the answer.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by lying to you,” Graff said. “Ender is our best prospect right now. The other options didn’t pan out as expected.”

Now that Bean could see more of Graff’s face, he looked wearier than he did in the official photos, but despite his sagging skin and dark circles his eyes were still sharp and searching and restless. They reminded Bean of Wiggin’s eyes, which were big and dark and which Bean had always admired.

Bean realized he was nervous. What was there to fear? It wasn’t fear that they’d lose the war — he didn’t delude himself about their chances, he knew they were screwed, but he’d had plenty of time to panic over that. If the Formics got him in ten or twenty years that would be fifteen or twenty-five years he hadn’t expected to live. So the thought made him feel anxious, sure, but not the paralyzing, pit-of-his-stomach fear now blooming in his stomach. So, really, what was he afraid of?

He still wanted Wiggin’s approval. And he wanted Wiggin — infallible commander Wiggin, envy of the whole school, savior of the human race — to look Bean in the eye and admit that he’d made a mistake, he’d misjudged, he should’ve trusted Bean when Bean had said his life was in danger. Maybe Wiggin would even say he was sorry.

It made him ashamed, how badly he wanted it. But he was careful not to show Graff the shame or the fear. He adjusted his expression, tried to look slightly bored, as if Graff was telling him things he already knew.

It was uncanny how closely Graff’s eyes watched Bean. Close enough to catch the little slip, whatever anxious tells Bean didn’t realize he had. If Graff had been in Wiggin’s head since he was a baby, it was a wonder Wiggin hadn’t snapped by now.

Why was Graff watching so closely? Was Bean one of the “other options?” And if so, what the hell did Graff mean, that Bean hadn’t “panned out”? What test had he failed?

Yet, despite himself, he felt the thrill of having Graff’s trust. Even though he knew Graff was just playing him, the same way Graff had manipulated Ender — there was the chance that Graff might understand the mistake he’d made, and eventually reconsider.

If he failed, they were screwed. But if he succeded, maybe they’d let him work with Wiggin, and they’d win the war together. Grant and Lincoln, two great men side by side.

And a second thought, even more selfish: Maybe he’d turn out to be even more important than Wiggin. If he succeeded in getting Wiggin back, they’d always know Wiggin as the one who broke and Bean as the one who put him back together. He would show Graff that he put his trust in the wrong guy.

~~~

Bean was careful climbing down the slope toward the lake. He’d been growing recently, and he still wasn’t used to his new height. The shooting pains up his legs woke him up at night. He was still the shortest kid at Battle School, but now the next guy had only a half-inch over him.

He stopped twice to sneeze. Since stepping outside on Earth, his eyes hadn’t stopped watering. His nose ran constantly. His whole face itched.

Damn, he’d gone soft, if he was really complaining about allergies.

Graff had provided a pair of swim trunks, but as soon as Bean had unfolded them he’d realized they were obviously too big. They’d fit Wiggin, maybe, but not Bean. He didn’t even need to try them on. To avoid the shame of asking Graff for another pair — for all he knew, Graff had done this on purpose, maybe this was where Wiggin had learned his pettiness — he’d left them behind. His uniform would have to do. He wasn’t planning on swimming, anyway.

Wiggin was waiting for him at the dock. He was smaller than Bean remembered, though maybe it was because Bean had grown. His skin had darkened in the sun, and his hair was wet and shaggy, several months past Battle School regulation length. He sat with his legs dangling off the dock, watching the lake water pushing them in gentle circles. He didn’t look up as Bean approached.

“Ho, Ender.”

Wiggin didn’t react.

So this was how he wanted to play it — pretending like Bean didn’t exist. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

Bean sneezed again (still nothing from Wiggin), and wiped his nose on his arm. His eyes ached from squinting. He wondered if Wiggin had had this much trouble adjusting to Earth, and he briefly thought of asking. But no, the perfect Ender Wiggin would never suffer from something so mundane as allergies.

Best to cut straight to the point. “Graff wants you back.”

“So I’ve heard.” Wiggin’s voice was flat. He still didn’t look at Bean.

They were both silent. I’ll wait, Wiggin. I can wait all day. Bean had forgotten how irritating Wiggin could be. He fought back a fourth sneeze. In the silence, he could hear birds humming, flies humming, wasps circling, nowhere to be and nowhere to go. Waves gently lapped against the shore.

“I figured you were next,” Wiggin said finally. “Process of elimination. General Pace, the psychologist, Graff, the lawyer, the other psychologist, General Hakim, Admiral Zhang, my sister. If you don’t work they probably will bring the Hegemon, and if he doesn’t work then they’ll bring the ghost of Mazer Rackham himself. And if he doesn’t work, then they’ll finally leave me alone and I can die in peace.”

Bean had been praying for Wiggin to look at him, and here, at last, Wiggin did — slowly, dully. Bean instantly regretted it. All the intelligence and wariness Bean had admired had left Wiggin's eyes. He looked drugged. Bean wasn’t even sure if Wiggin knew who he was, or cared.

“Well? Get it over with.” Wiggin sounded bored. “Tell me how many deaths will be on my shoulders. Get down on your knees and beg. Explain my duty to the human race.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Bean kept his tone light, unconcerned. Had they told Wiggin he wasn’t human? Was that why Wiggin sounded so sarcastic?

“Well, you’re a smart guy. Make something up.”

Surely they hadn’t told Wiggin… Wiggin didn’t know shit about him. But what if they had…? Would that be why Wiggin had always mistrusted him, took every opportunity to diminish him?

“They’ve tried just about everything in the book,” Wiggin went on. “I thought you’d come up with something new.”

“Hey,” Bean said, and it came out sounding more irritated than he’d intended. “I didn’t ask to come here.”

Wiggin gave a little snort. “This your first time taking orders?”

Bean bit back a retort. He shouldn’t have expected better of Wiggin. What had he thought would happen? Wiggin would embrace him, apologizing for not offering him a toon, and thanking him for the advice that had saved his life — oh right, except that he’d ignored Bean’s advice and almost gotten himself killed?

“They’ve already tried acting reluctant, in case you’re wondering,” Wiggin went on. “The psychologist kept apologizing, like that would make me feel less guilty. My sister acted like they had a gun to her head. Or maybe she wasn’t acting.”

Bean tried to keep from getting mad. It wouldn’t help anyone if he got mad at Wiggin, especially since he suspected that was exactly what Wiggin wanted.

“I expected you to be more creative. Aren’t they teaching you anything at school?” Wiggin paused, blinked a couple times. “Oh, right, they must’ve graduated you by now.” He put a little irony into the word graduated. He’d realized by now that the whole school system was a joke.

“With honors,” Bean said, playing along.

“Took them long enough.”

This was the kindest thing Bean could remember Wiggin saying about him, which didn’t mean much. Still, it was enough to encourage him to say what he’d been waiting to say.

“I made commander before I left,” Bean said. He needed Wiggin to know. And he added mentally: I earned my army’s respect, even though you said I couldn’t. Every time I came up with a new idea, I thought of you. In every battle I wondered how much better Dragon would have been with me by your side. I didn’t lead my soldiers as well as you did, but then again, no one could ever lead as well as you. Nothing I do would ever live up to you.

But Wiggin didn’t react, just looked back out at the lake.

Bean cursed himself. He’d been foolish even to mention the game, as if Wiggin would still care. Now he sounded ridiculous, hungry for approval. Which, to be fair, maybe he was.

Why do I still need him to like me?

Bean looked at the water. It made him uneasy, being around this much water, especially when he couldn’t see how deep it was. He thought of Poke’s bloated body and shivered. He made sure there was a good meter or two between him and the water, and also between him and Wiggin. Wiggin still had the advantage of height and weight, and the muscles standing out in his arms and back; it wouldn’t be hard for him to throw Bean’s body in the river.

“Do you want to swim?” Wiggin asked.

Was Wiggin making fun of him? Did Wiggin see how nervous he was? No — Wiggin wasn’t even looking at him.

“I never learned,” Bean said.

“I spend all day out here,” Wiggin went on, as if he hadn’t really heard Bean. “It feels like being weightless again — I missed that feeling.”

“I don’t know how to swim,” Bean repeated.

This time Wiggin seemed to hear him. “Well, at least come on the raft.”

Bean looked at the raft tied to the dock.. It was clearly something Wiggin had built himself, and it didn’t even look strong enough to hold Wiggin’s weight, let alone Bean’s as well.

“Who would save me if I fell off? Graff?”

“There are guards posted around the lake.” Wiggin pointed. Bean didn’t see anything. “They don’t show themselves, but you can see their cigarettes at night if you look closely enough. I’m sure one of them would be a strong enough swimmer.

“At first I thought the guards were there to keep me on the grounds. So I tried walking off, along the same road they drove you in. I wanted to see if they’d shoot me. At least tranquilize me. But nothing happened. So I made it half a kilometer before I thought — where would I go? There’s nowhere else I want to be but here.”

This close Bean could see the imperfections on Wiggin’s skin. The knuckles of his pointing hand were scabbed, too fresh to have been from the fight with Achilles. When he turned his head away, a white scar stood out against the brown of his skin. Bean hadn’t seen them at Battle School — either he’d ignored them, or they hadn’t been there back then. Either way, he wished he hadn’t seen them now.

He didn’t want to look at the water, either, but he didn’t want Wiggin to see him squeezing his eyes shut like a coward. He looked down at his feet where the grass met the wooden dock.

“The guards are there to protect you,” he said, belatedly remembering his goal. “You’re probably the most important person in the world right now. You’re our strongest weapon." If Graff was listening in on their conversation, and Bean was almost certain he was, he’d appreciate Bean making an attempt.

Wiggin ignored him. “I figured it out in the end. The guards are there in case I decide to walk off the dock. They’re supposed to save me from myself. And now, I suppose, to save you from me.”

Shit.

Bean took a few steps back, away from Wiggin and the open water. Wiggin blinked slowly at him, as if unaware of the threat he’d just made.

“What did they tell you before you got here?” he asked. “Did they tell you I’m crazy?”

Anderson had raised that possibility, but in more polite language. “They said your talents were being wasted here.”

“Good.” Wiggin slipped off the dock.

At first Bean thought Wiggin had done as he’d suggested and gone to drown himself. He looked around, wondering if he should run for help, or call for the guards who might or might not be lurking. He cursed himself for not having planned for this, and cursed himself again for not acting sooner. Then Wiggin’s head popped up a few meters away.

Bean, still tense, kept his eyes on Wiggin. But Wiggin didn’t seem to want to drown Bean, or to mock him for staying on dry land. He didn’t seem to care about Bean whatsoever. He was just swimming.

Bean took off his shoes and sat on the side of the dock. Unlike Wiggin, his legs weren’t long enough to reach the water. The wood underneath him was damp, and he realized it was the same place and the same position Wiggin himself had been sitting.

He watched Wiggin swim, trying not to think about him drowning, either accidentally or on purpose. He thought about calling out to him, but Wiggin seemed to have forgotten that he was there.

Bean considered two possibilities. The better one was that Wiggin was irritating Bean on purpose. If Wiggin succeeded in driving Bean away, then he’d get to be undisturbed and unburdened on Earth for a little bit longer. Hey, it had worked in Battle School.

But the other possibility, the one Bean didn’t want to name, which was that Anderson had told him the truth — that Wiggin, though he hid it reasonably well, had lost his mind.

~~~

Dusk fell, and finally Wiggin could swim no more. Bean silently followed Wiggin up the hill. The air was so humid he felt like he’d taken a dip even though he hadn’t touched the water, and it took effort to breathe. Mosquitos hovered above the water, and he slapped one off his arm.

He’d made no progress — Wiggin was as impenetrable as ever. Just give up and send me to Tactical School already, Bean would say to Graff. Call up Rackham’s ghost or the Hegemon or whoever’s next on your list. I’m done. I’m ready to move on.

Why had Graff thought this would work in the first place? Bean had no special relationship with Wiggin. He’d once thought his time following Wiggin so closely had given him special insight. But he’d been wrong. Wiggin had fallen in with Achilles, had trusted Achilles over Bean, and had almost gotten himself killed because of it.

But when Graff saw Bean, he didn’t tell him to leave.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner.” He was half-smiling, playing the role of a good host. Or maybe it wasn’t a role — something in the dining room smelled delicious.

“I’m not hungry,” Wiggin said.

But Bean very much was. He pushed past Wiggin to take a seat at the table.

Bean had never had pizza before, though he remembered walking past shops with Sister Carlotta. It had looked too rich for him. Still did now. They had never had cheese at Battle School, especially not such thick slabs, and mess hall food never glistened like that.

Now, though, he discovered he had a taste for it. He wolfed down three slices. Partly to give himself more time to think, partly because the food was delicious and because he was very hungry.

No one spoke. Bean wondered if their mealtimes were always this awkward. He noted how Wiggin didn’t look at Graff or Bean, just silently picked at his own slice. Graff seemed to avoid looking at Wiggin, too, looked only at his own food or at Bean. Was Graff expecting Bean to do something? What the hell do you want me to do? Bean wanted to yell at him. I’m not Wiggin — I can’t work miracles.

Hell, he could barely even win a battle. After Ender had been graduated (as the teachers had put it euphemistically), Bean had spent two months commanding Salamander, succeeding Bonzo Madrid. He won three battles and lost four. The first loss, against Alai al-Nubi, had been shameful. The second loss, against Crazy Tom, his former toon leader, had been humiliating.

He’d worried about his record that night in bed, and he’d wondered what it was that Ender Wiggin had that he didn’t, such that Wiggin could win thirty battles in twenty-nine days under increasingly contrived disadvantage. Yes, Bean had hand-picked each member of Dragon, but that didn’t account for all of Wiggin’s success. Exemplary soldiers only went so far when the opposing side outnumbered you two-to-one. No wonder the teachers had chosen Wiggin over him. No wonder Wiggin himself had chosen Tom and Alai and a half-dozen other inferior minds over him.

Bean knew he was doing something wrong — Salamander didn’t work together as well as Dragon had, even though it had existed for much longer. Had he let his emotions get the better of him, once he started losing? Was it that his soldiers could sense his frustration, or worse, his fear, his desperation?  How had Wiggin managed it? —but of course Wiggin had never been in this position, since he’d never lost. Plus, as far as Bean could tell, Wiggin barely had any emotions at all. Now and then, anger and frustration at the teachers and at Bean. Fear, on rare occasions — Bean had once heard him scream.

By the time the lights came on the next morning, though, he’d come to the conclusion that win or lose didn’t matter, the standings didn’t matter — whatever happened at Battle School was merely preparation for the only war that did matter. And when he lost the next battle, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Maybe this is why Wiggin had only ever won — because he believed all of it was real. When he finally saw the game for what it is, then he checked out, and this was the result.

That was why they had wanted Wiggin more than Bean. As long as they were able to fool him, he was useful to them. Wiggin wouldn’t have given up so soon — and therefore Bean would have to keep trying as well.

Maybe Wiggin’s drive was what Bean had been missing in his life, Bean thought, bearing down on his pizza. Wiggin’s direction. Wiggin as his North Star.

Bean took his empty plate into the kitchen, and by the time he returned, some private conference had taken place between Wiggin and Graff. Wiggin reluctantly led him into one of the rooms off the main hall. “Graff said you can sleep in here.”

It wasn’t a big room. There was an old-fashioned television and a pair of bookshelves. There was a table and a couch and a window, though by now it was too dark to see the lake. That meant at least one potentially viable escape route. There was no bed.

What the hell was this? A room just for sitting and watching television? How many rooms did this place have?

Wiggin looked at Bean looking at the room. “Do you need a lullaby?”

“Do you want to give me a bedroom with an actual bed?”

Wiggin didn’t even dignify this with an answer, just turned and walked down the hall.

The couch it was, then.

Bean reminded himself that Wiggin couldn’t help being petty — he was probably crazy. That didn’t help.

He took his turn in the bathroom after Wiggin, splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth using a toothbrush he’d found in the cabinet.  Graff hadn’t offered him a spare set of clothes — there was no choice but to wear the uniform he came in. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have complained about having to sleep in his clothes, but today it was one more humiliation among many.

He thought about turning on the television, squeezed between the two tottering bookshelves, and trying to access the Net, but decided it was more trouble than it was worth. What were the odds that the decades-old television had networking capabilities? Besides, he didn’t want to get close to the bookshelves, which looked like some kind of trap. Bean hadn’t seen paper books since he’d lived with Sister Carlotta. She’d kept her collection clean and often pulled books off her shelf to read to Bean or to herself, but the books in this house smelled dusty, and Bean worried that they’d start him sneezing again. He didn’t want Wiggin to hear him sneeze.

For lack of a better idea, he lay down on the couch. But he didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. His stomach was cramping, had been cramping all day, and dinner probably hadn’t helped. He always felt sluggish when he ate too much too fast. He should have listened to the instincts telling him that the pizza was too rich. He should’ve followed Wiggin’s example and limited himself to a single slice.

It wasn’t just the dinner, though, and it wasn’t just his anxiety about his mission as a whole. He felt uneasy in this room — exposed in a way he hadn’t felt since the first few days after the Wiggin-Achilles fight, when everyone realized that not even commanders’ quarters were safe.

Bean, newly promoted to commander of Salamander, had other things to worry about, such as pretending to ignore the fact that his army was whispering about him. Finally, Aluko, leader of Salamander’s A toon, had explained to him what the rest of the soldiers were whispering about: “They’re saying Achilles had it out for you too, sir. Story goes, it was either Ender or you.”

Bean quashed the rumors immediately. He and Achilles had had their squabbles, he replied, in the most authoritative tone he could manage, but that was long in the past, back on Earth. (And wasn’t it taboo to talk about life before Battle School, anyway?) Achilles had served well under Ender Wiggin, and his death had been a tragic mistake.

But now Bean wondered if the rumors were true, if Achilles had indeed been planning to move against him. How easy would it have been to go for Bean instead?

The question had nagged at him for a while. Every night in his commander quarters, before shutting the door, he’d used the light from his desk to check under his bed. And yes, he was aware he was being irrational. No one intelligent enough to get into Battle School would try that tactic again. It had been dumb the first time around. Besides, Bean had no enemies, now that Achilles and Wiggin were both gone. But no amount of logic helped. He still couldn’t fall asleep without checking under his bed first.

Now, lying on Graff’s couch, Bean pressed the pillow over his own face, pretending his hands were Achilles’. If Achilles had come to suffocate him, would he have been able to escape?

Keeping up a constant pressure on the pillow, and twisting his body the right way, he found he could wiggle his way out from underneath.

Right, then, that had been too easy. What about if he had been as tired as Wiggin had been — twenty-nine days of battles, most recently the three-hour ordeal with Rabbit? Wiggin hadn’t showed it, and the gossips never talked about it, but he must’ve been exhausted. Maybe there was a part of him that had wanted to succumb.

And maybe in his place, Bean would’ve wanted to succumb too. Achilles would’ve known how to get Bean to give in. He knew how much he scared Bean, and he would’ve taken advantage of the fear. He would start with a laugh from under the bed, soft enough that it could’ve just been a dream. Bean dreamt of Rotterdam sometimes, even this many years on, in the worst parts watching Achilles kiss Poke, and then watching Achilles strangle Poke, watching her struggling, her eyes popping out, him smiling and laughing dream-soft, only Bean was frozen the way you were always frozen in a dream, unable to move, unable to call out, watching her turn purple, watching her body fall into the river…

Bean felt his breath quicken. He pressed the pillow over his face, trying to suppress this line of thought. He was being irrational again, he reminded himself. Achilles couldn’t have gone for him. It was Wiggin who’d offended Achilles, Wiggin who was the easiest target. And Bean had been sleeping in a room with thirty-nine other boys, while Wiggin had been totally alone.

Here was how the story started. As early as the morning after, Bean had heard some variant from at least a half-dozen different boys. The story started with Achilles lurking in the darkness, waiting for hours, waiting until he was sure. Then he lowered a pillow over a sleeping Wiggin’s face.

Except Wiggin wasn’t sleeping for long. He muscled his way out from under the pillow, jumped out of bed, and somehow, even though Achilles was a head taller and plenty heavier, Wiggin quickly gained the upper hand. He slammed Achilles’ head against the bed frame, and slammed it again, rattling the bolted-down bed so loud it woke up some of the Rabbits in the next room over. Then he shoved his hand against the mess of Achilles’ skull and pinned him to the ground until the medics showed up.

Or so the story went.

This was where Bean came in. He’d woken immediately to the sound of screams, one of which abruptly cut out. In the time it took for his bunkmates to speculate, perhaps refusing to admit that the screams were coming from Wiggin’s quarters, Bean was already off his bunk and at the door.

He was one of the last ones to arrive outside Wiggin’s quarters. Both screams had stopped. A quartet of marines were keeping students away from the door — the crowd was mostly Rabbits, a couple Centipedes from further down the hall. No Dragons, not yet. Bean tried to push his way through to the door using his sharp elbows, but the older kids merely brushed him aside.

The marines cleared a way for two medics and their wheeled stretcher, and in the rearranging crowd Bean was able to squeeze between Itú and a tearful Echo.

On the stretcher was Wiggin, as Bean had hoped. But Wiggin looked dead, and Bean thought he would die himself. His heart would just give out, his muscles would collapse and already he felt weak enough to stumble into Echo. But then Echo shoved him back in return, and Bean caught himself and reasoned: if Wiggin was dead, they would be doing CPR, or at least attempting it for appearances. Wiggin was just covered in blood — someone’s blood — and lying very, very still. Blood dripped into his eye, but he didn’t even reach up to wipe it.

One-eyed, Wiggin slowly turned his head to look back at his room — but because of the angle, Bean could pretend Wiggin was looking at him. Logically, it didn’t make any sense. Wiggin must’ve been looking at someone else. The corpse, maybe. Wiggin blinked rapidly a couple times, probably clearing the blood out of his eye. Then a marine pushed Bean out of the way, and the stretcher broke free of the crowd and sped off down the hallway.

The Rabbits and Centipedes and a few late Dragons mostly dissipated in small groups. A few students lingered, jostling to see inside Wiggin’s room, watching the medics perform CPR. Bean found he had no desire to see the body. He turned and walked back to the hall, back to his bunks.

What was it that he felt? To his frustration, he couldn’t think of a word in any of his half-dozen languages. Was it envy, that Wiggin had been the one to do it? Shame, that Bean had been too weak to do it himself? He had expected to feel more when Achilles died — triumphant, at least, that he’d lived and Achilles had died. Instead he just felt empty.

That was all Bean had seen, all he’d felt himself — without his ^Graff login, he relied on gossips to piece together the rest.

But there were all those weird details that the gossips never explained. For example, it wasn’t clear how Achilles had gotten past the locks — or if he hadn’t at all, if he’d hidden under the bed for hours.

Besides, it didn’t sound like Achilles. The plan was too sloppy. A pillow was a lousy choice of murder weapon, and everyone knew that Ender Wiggin didn’t sleep.

Maybe Achilles had come to talk to Wiggin, and the conversation had turned nasty. In that case, Wiggin might have been the first to strike — angry that Achilles was competing for his glory, or maybe, that Achilles had almost cost Dragon their win.

Or, hey, Bean had heard both of them scream, which could mean anything. It wasn’t clear whose scream had started first. Maybe Wiggin had started the whole thing. Maybe Wiggin had lured Achilles into his room and had taken the opportunity to get rid of a disobedient soldier. And lying on the ground, drenched in Achilles’ blood, feeling the pieces of Achilles’ skull slide under his fingers, he’d thought up a story that would make himself seem like the victim.

Bean didn’t like that possibility, but he didn’t want to discount it, either. Wiggin was self-centered, had been even in Battle School, and naked hunger for power was one way to interpret Wiggin’s behavior in Dragon. And if Achilles and Wiggin were so similar, then it would explain why they got on so well — something that Bean had never fully understood. They could be likeable, even charismatic, but on the inside they were deeply rotten. How could he not have seen it before?

But the thought scared Bean. He didn’t want to believe that he’d so admired someone who had so admired Achilles.

The floor creaked in the hallway. Bean was suddenly very aware that he was dozing a couple doors down from an unstable murderer who demonstratably had it out for him. Who in fact had made several threats against him earlier that day. Wiggin might be crazy; at the very least, he was unpredictable. If Wiggin did something to Bean, Graff certainly wouldn’t care — last time Wiggin had killed, they’d rewarded Graff with a vacation. And Wiggin himself had a dozen reasons to go for Bean. He clearly didn’t want to be sent back to training. Maybe he was jealous of Graff’s attention, or that Graff seemed to trust Bean more than him. Maybe he didn’t like that Bean had seen him vulnerable, both today on the lake and immediately after the fight limp on the stretcher.

But if Wiggin came for him tonight, maybe Bean would deserve it. He’d spent so long trying to understand, then to imitate, Wiggin — and Wiggin turned to be a monster.

Why couldn’t Bean learn from his own mistakes? It was another another such error of judgement that had caused Poke’s death.

The footsteps paused outside Bean’s room, and Bean jolted upright, the pillow falling off his head. The footsteps were too light to belong to anyone but a child.

But they passed his room, moving down the hall.

Bean slipped out of bed.

By now Wiggin was in the bathroom. Even through the closed door, Bean heard a retching sound, then spitting, then water running into the sink.

Bean knocked on the door. If Wiggin had done something to Graff, Bean wanted to know, and now, while Wiggin sounded incapacitated, while he’d be stunned and at his weakest, would be the best time to find out. This time he wouldn’t run as he had in Rotterdam.

“Ender?”

“Go away.”

They’d drilled it into Bean in Battle School, never to disobey direct order from a superior. He opened the door anyway.

Wiggin was looking straight at him. He had one hand under the running water, the other gripping the counter to steady himself. There was blood on his lips, blood down his chin, blood dripping onto his undershirt. He looked so much like he had after the fight with Achilles that Bean thought this was a dream. Or a nightmare.

The blood is his own, Bean thought.

Somehow that didn’t reassure him.

When Wiggin opened his mouth to speak, his teeth shone red. “Go away,” he said again, with less conviction.

Bean took a step back.

“I’m fine,” Wiggin said, slurring a little. “Just swallowed some blood.”

“What happened to your hand?” Bean asked, knowing well what had happened to his hand.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Wiggin bent his head over the sink. Bean looked down but not before he saw him spit out something pink.

“I can bring you a first-aid kit,” Bean said, blinking at the ground. He didn’t know where a first-aid kit was and didn’t want to get anywhere near Wiggin, but he didn’t want Wiggin to see him afraid. His stomach cramped so fiercely he thought he would throw up, and he wiggled his toes, trying to get rid of the feeling.

The faucet shut off. “I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t leave it like that.” Though he would have, if Bean hadn’t been around. “You’re going to get blood all over your pillow.”

Wiggin sied. “I probably stil have the supplies somewhere.” Bean heard him rummaging through the drawers under the sink, and looked up to see Wiggin with a tube of ointment and a roll of gauze, still in their packaging. Presumably Wiggin hadn’t purchased them himself, which meant Graff had seen the scrapes and he hadn’t …

He hadn’t what? What would even help? Sleeping pills?

“This hasn’t happened for a while. I thought it was over.” Wiggin winced as he applied the antiseptic with his good hand. It was the first time Bean remembered seeing him in pain. Bean looked at the floor again again, wishing he hadn’t seen.

When he looked back Wiggin was done, dropping the antiseptic back in the drawers. He’d cleaned and bandaged his hand and wiped the worst of the blood off his face, but there was still a streak under his bottom lip and droplets staining his undershirt.

“You can take the bedroom if you want,” he offered. “I can’t sleep in there. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

Bean didn’t want to sleep in the bedroom. You’re being superstitious, he told himself. Night terrors aren’t contagious. Besides, Wiggin looked too unsteady on his feet to hurt anyone besides himself.

He followed Wiggin, who ended up in the sitting room where Bean had been dozing. Bean expected Wiggin to claim the couch, but Wiggin lay down on the floor in the cramped space between the couch and the table, hands folded over his chest, like the photographs of effigies from Sister Carlotta’s books.

Bean waited for Wiggin to tell him to switch off the lights, or to give him another order. Wiggin didn’t say anything.

So Bean lay down on the couch and hugged the pillow to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. It was irrational, but he wished he could have closed his eyes and slept forever. He didn’t want to have to face the thing that had been Ender Wiggin.

“The dreams are starting again,” Ender said softly, and Bean looked down at him. “I’ve killed him, I see his face, covered in blood, smiling at me. Half of his head is missing. I don’t remember if that’s actually how he looked, but that’s how he looks in my dreams.” Ender covered his eyes with his palms.

Bean thought of his own nightmares. They’d been worst on Earth — he’d woken Sister Carlotta a couple times with his cries, though she refused to tell him what he’d been saying. Thankfully the worst had passed by the time he’d entered Ground School, but there were still a couple nights a month where he woke up sweating and panicky and had to lie awake visualizing three-dimensional army formations to calm down.

Bean decided to lie. “He didn’t look that bad in real life. It was nothing the doctors couldn’t fix.”

Ender didn’t respond.

That was about what Bean deserved, for such a pathetic lie. He was a shitty liar.

Telling Ender the truth, though, would’ve meant confessing that he thought about Ender and Achilles far too often. Ender more often than Achilles. It was Ender’s face that haunted him more. In these dreams, the Ender sitting on the stretcher wore a self-satisfied, hungry expression, and the dream always turned into a nightmare because Ender’s smile looked just like Achilles’. But Bean’s memory was good enough that he knew that was only in the dream.

That was one important difference between Ender and Achilles — Bean had never seen Ender smile.

“Why Achilles?” he asked. And not me?

“Because he went for me first. It wasn’t me that started the fight.” It sounded a little too rehearsed.

“No, not why you killed him. Why were you his friend?” And not mine?

There was a long pause. Bean wasn’t sure Ender had heard the question, so he repeated himself.

Another long pause. Maybe Ender had heard just fine. “Because we thought the same way,” he said finally. “He agreed that we should study the Buggers. We should study our enemies, on principle. See what we can learn from them.”

Bean doubted that Achilles had given much actual thought to the Formics. He’d probably heard Ender say something about learning how the Formics think in order to beat them, then parroted it back later to gain Ender’s trust. Though he wasn’t surprised that Achilles would want to learn from such a repugnant enemy.

“The rest of Dragon thought I was crazy, but he would join me and spend hours piecing together the footage. It was deliberately cut up, but we reconstructed almost all of Mazer Rackham’s victory and just watched the way the Bugger ships moved. We watched for hours and I still can’t tell how humanity won. Maybe we shouldn’t have.”

Bean didn’t ask what else they’d found, though he could tell Ender wanted him to. Achilles would’ve asked.

“And now he’s gone, and I’m almost gone, and there’s no one left who understands the Buggers.”

“You’re not almost gone,” Bean said.

“You still think I’m useful?” Ender stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t even carry a thought anymore.”

Bean pretended he hadn’t noticed Ender’s pauses, glassy looks, or the way he sometimes seemed not to hear Bean or Graff when they spoke. “You’re still the only one who can win the war.”

It was the same thing verbatim they’d been telling Ender for months, but Ender didn’t seem to notice.

“Maybe that used to be true. But I don’t know if I’m the same person I used to be.”

“You are,” Bean lied quickly.

“I don’t know if I want to be the same person.”

He doesn’t want to be reassured, Bean realized. He wants to believe he’s broken. Because if he’s not broken, then they can still use him.

This frightened Bean. He wanted to grab Ender and shake him, shake off whatever layers of blood and dust and lake water had accumulated over the past few months, and finally underneath it all would be the Commander Wiggin he remembered. You’re a a legend in Battle School, he wanted to tell Ender. The generals talk about you like you’re the second coming of Christ. And you killed Achilles.

But he wasn’t sure that Commander Wiggin was still under there. He didn’t recognize the hero he knew in the bloody-mouthed effigy lying on the floor next to him, nor the shadow of a person he’d met on the dock that afternoon.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Commander Wiggin until now.

“They said I looked like I was enjoying myself,” Ender said. “That’s what I overheard Graff say to one of the psychologists. I wasn’t supposed to have heard, or at least I don’t think I was. You can’t always tell with him.

“They had cameras in my room, you know how they have cameras everywhere. They caught the fight on multiple angles. I thought, no, no, I wouldn’t have been smiling. Then I realized I didn’t know for sure.

“I don’t think I enjoyed it. I don’t think I felt anything, even when he fell against the bed frame and his head cracked, I could hear it crack, I could feel it in my own head, but I hit him a second time, I threw him against the bed frame, just to be sure, I thought, just to make sure he wasn’t going to jump up and hit me back.

“But my memory isn’t that good.”

He was lying to Bean, or to himself — Bean know exactly how good his memory was.

“You were screaming.”

“I was?” Ender shrugged limply. “I don’t remember screaming. It scares me that I can’t remember what I felt at all. I should have felt something at least. It should hurt to kill another person. It should hurt real bad.”

“I saw you, just after you won. You didn’t enjoy it.”

“If you were there — if you saw me — you should’ve stopped me.”

I tried to stop you. I warned you, didn’t I? “Ender, he was going to kill you.”

“I should’ve let him.”

Bean was silent.

“I should’ve walked off the dock as soon as I got here,” Ender said, with more feeling than Bean had heard from him in a long time.

Bean had the horrible image of Ender drowned, his body floating in the lake, puffy from the water — he realized that he was picturing Poke’s face on Ender’s body. Even though he was dead, Achilles would take one last victim.

“I don’t want to be the kind of person who can kill someone and just get over it. I want it to hurt for a long time. Do you see what I mean?”

The kind of person who gets over it — that was what Achilles was. Or, what Achilles had been.  The nightmares, the blankness, all of it the madness, that was his way of separating himself from Achilles.

“You’re going to destroy yourself if you keep beating yourself over it,” Bean said.

“Does it matter?”

Bean was so frustrated, he laughed. “Of course it matters. They need you to win the war.” I need you, he wanted to say.

“That’s all you care about? They have other people to take my place. Hell, you can probably take my place.”

At first Bean didn’t believe what he’d heard. He’d been waiting for so long to hear these words, and Ender had said them so casually. “You think I could?”

“You sound surprised,” Ender said dully.

“I didn’t think you had any faith in me.”

“I wouldn’t have treated you the way I did if I didn’t have faith in you.” Ender suddenly sounded very tired. “If it hadn’t been Achilles by my side, then it would’ve been you.” Softly, he said, “I’d rather it have been you.”

“I’m still here, Ender,” Bean said. He reached down and took Ender’s hand. Warmth spread from his hand to the rest of his body, and Bean felt like he was finally waking up, as if the rest of Battle School since his transfer had all been a dream.

But Ender didn’t react, didn’t even curl his fingers around Bean’s.

“I was worried they’d send you,” Ender said finally.

It wasn’t the response Bean had hoped for, but it was enough. Maybe Bean did mean something to Ender after all. Maybe he was more than an annoyance.

Could Ender ever understand how much he meant to Bean in return?  Every decision Bean had made, he thought of Ender. Every success, every screwup, he’d thought of Ender. The whole reason he’d continued to play their stupid games was that so there might be a chance he could see Ender again. At night he dreamed about Ender’s bloodied face. He didn’t need to kill Ender for Ender to haunt him.

He dared turn to the side to look down at Ender. Ender’s expression surprised him. Ender was looking back at him, but instead of affection, admiration, whatever Bean had expected, Ender looked sad and hollow.

This was what Bean had wanted. This was what he’d feared.

“I was worried they’d send me, too,” Bean whispered.

He let Ender’s clammy hand slide out of his. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was Ender still watching him, like he was trying to memorize his face.

~~~

Bean slept well, considering. When he woke up, Ender was no longer on the floor next to him.

He wasn’t in the kitchen, either, but Graff was. “Ender’s down at the lake already,” he told Bean. “He asked for one last swim before he left.” He added quickly, “We have a guard keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s leaving?” What was it that Bean had said, if anything, that had changed Ender’s mind? Graff had surely heard their conversation, but probably wouldn’t be able or willing to answer.

Bean asked the more important question, even though he was afraid to know the answer: “Am I going too?”

“Your transport will take more time to arrange. You’ll leave for Tactical School next week.” Graff smiled, like he was doing Bean a favor. “You can have his room.”

Suddenly Bean was angry. I don’t care about Ender’s room. I care about Ender himself. All I wanted was some confirmation that I’ll get to work with him, and I know you know that.

But he said nothing to Graff, because suddenly they saw Ender coming down the path through the window. Here was the commander who would lead the human forces to victory, looking for all the world like a kid who’d just finished having a swim.

Would Ender ever get to swim again? Bean pictured him in ten years, five, two: Commander Wiggin pale and weary; passed from hand to hand under fluorescent lights; giving orders through a headset to people he would never meet; swallowing a sleeping pill when the lights shut off; waking up crying; spitting blood into the Command School sink; stiffly lying back down on the floor of his bedroom alone all alone… Or Bean could think of worse, if he wanted. The mental picture he couldn’t shake of Ender’s face puffy from drowning.

They would use him up, yes, they’d exhaust whatever little fighting spirit he had left, and Bean didn’t know if he would get to be there when Ender broke.

“It would have been kinder to let him stay,” said Bean, who was feeling cruel.

Graff laughed, like he was indulging a pathetic little kid. Maybe that was all Bean was. Wasn’t it Bean’s fault that Ender had left? Had Graff made him complicit on purpose? “It’s hardly your place to say what’s best for Ender.”

“It’s not just about Ender.”

“Would it have been kinder to let all of us perish? Because we were too soft-hearted to push him a little harder?” The door swung open. “Because we gave up our strongest weapon?”

~~~

The weapon stood at the door, wrapped in a towel.

“I’m ready now,” he said to Graff.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He hadn’t. He shrugged. A weapon doesn’t need to eat. Nor does it need to sleep, which was good because he hadn’t.

In the bathroom he ripped the bandages off his bad hand. He showered, scraping his skin clean of lake scum, and dressed. It was harder with his fingers so stiff.

The car was idling in the driveway. Graff was in uniform in the front seat, and there was another uniformed man driving. The weapon wished he in uniform as well. It still felt disgenuous to wear civilian clothes. 

The man in the driver’s seat turned around. He was missing half his face. Still, he was smiling. The remainder of an eye dripped down his pale cheek.

No. No, that wasn’t right. The weapon blinked, and he saw the man staring at him with a whole face.

In a way, though, the dead man had made more sense. A weapon has no allies. To a weapon, everyone is a victim or a potential victim. Such would be his future: They would make the weapon kill over and over and over until it broke. The car was still idling, waiting for him, door open as if he’d ever really had a choice.

He wondered if he did, then laughed at himself for wondering. Spending so long here had been a mistake — he’d almost convinced himself he was a person.

He got into the car. He could feel Bean behind him, waving goodbye, calling out to him. Saying that he would see you soon. He closed the car door without looking back.